


Gods and Monsters

by tiger_moran



Series: Lyric [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Caring, Don't copy to another site, Love, M/M, References to Colonialism, References to racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27302290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Third in a collection of standalone but also interconnected Moriarty and Moran fics inspired by lyrics from songs, particularly pop/rock songs.
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty
Series: Lyric [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992709
Kudos: 7





	Gods and Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> Lana Del Rey – Gods and Monsters
> 
> In the land of gods and monsters  
> I was an angel  
> Living in the garden of evil  
> Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed  
> Shining like a fiery beacon  
> You got that medicine I need  
> Fame, liquor, love, give it to me slowly  
> Put your hands on my waist, do it softly

“Would you ever go back?”

“To what?”

“To the army, to India.”

Moran snorts softly. “How can I?” He most thoroughly burned those bridges, didn't he, with what happened there.

“But if you could?”

“No.” Because India – as fascinating and enthralling a place as it was, with its pantheon of deities, its lush jungles, its busy streets, its array of animals both domestic (and, yet, somehow still always different to those back in Britain) and far more exotic – was never home to him. He was always an outsider there, no matter how well he learned the languages or the customs. He belonged neither with the Indian people themselves nor with the British who tried to create their own little England out there with their fancy houses and their balls where one must adhere strictly to proper protocol, or their garden parties where people stood around watching polo matches and gossiping about London fashions or about some lords and ladies Moran neither knew nor cared about (and how banal all of that was).

“I could never go back,” he says. “ _Would_ never go back.”

He should never have been there in the first place, in truth. He has his medals still, but he feels no pride in them; he keeps them in the dark, dumped in a battered box beneath a bed he rarely sleeps in any more. He was younger then though, and it was not that he ever believed all of that balderdash about the British empire; about the superiority of the white man over the 'savage natives', though perhaps for a time he was naïve enough to think the army, the empire, might at least care about its own soldiers. Truly though he simply did not know where else to go or what to do, save follow in the footsteps of various Moran ancestors and go off to war. Those ancestors of course are no doubt now looking down upon him and sneering at him, calling him a traitor; calling him a blot on the family history. Instead of coming back from war covered in glory, loaded with stolen riches and being lauded as a conquering hero, he only returned to a country he could not call home either, his hair streaked with grey, with far more scars on his body, sick, haunted and all but broken, with little money, barely any possessions, and burning up with barely-concealed loathing towards what has never been _his_ Queen or country.

“Why, d'you want rid of me or something?” he asks, and tries to make it a joke, but there is something just a little off with the jollity of his tone, something forced.

“Of course not.” Moriarty kisses the back of Moran's neck. “Just curious.”

“I see.”

Being beside Moriarty though, that is his home. Being with him for all these months now, he has begun to heal – he has gained a little weight and lost that rather gaunt appearance he had when the Professor first met him. The nightmares have almost gone away too, and he sleeps more, often curled in the Professor's arms, in the Professor's bed, the heat and bulk of Moriarty's body cocooning him, like this.

Moriarty slides his arms around Moran's waist, draws him close, spooning around him, and Moran sighs contentedly, snuggling closer. Warm, and safe.


End file.
